


things you wanted to say (but didn't)

by spideyxmoriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bit Not Good, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Depression, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Ghost Sherlock, Ghost!Lock, Ghosts, Grief, How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I wrote this as a coping mechanism, Kinda, Loss, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Has a Heart, No Mary Morstan, No Smut, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, Pining, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Psychic John Watson, Romance, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Survivor Guilt, What's a Eurus?, and studying, but it ends well I promise, clairvoyant!john, dead :) sherlock :) holmes :), i did no kind of research on ghosts, i guess?, it's sad but not as sad as it seems, john can hear ghosts, okay so it's angstier than i planned, psychic!john, sherlock did die in the reichenbach fall, so it might be a bit inaccurate, sorry @ ghosts, there's a few references to those series tho, timing, well not really cause he's dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:28:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22511749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spideyxmoriarty/pseuds/spideyxmoriarty
Summary: He couldn’t remember what was going on. It had become a bit of a blur. He quickly scanned his surroundings. He was at St. Bart’s. He could see John. There were some people standing around something on the pavement. Were they...? Yes, most of them were from the homeless network. But why were they all gathered up? Oh, it must be a corpse. Surely. Was it Christmas after all?Then he heard that phrase again. “He’s my friend,” John was saying.Sherlock leaned in to take a closer look at the corpse, but nothing could’ve prepared him for what he saw: a tall, pale dark-haired man in his thirties, dressed in a suit and an expensive coat, with a significant amount of blood coming out of his forehead. Was he... was he staring at his own body?ORAn AU where Sherlock died in The Reichenbach Fall. He's come back as a ghost, and only John can hear him.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 107





	things you wanted to say (but didn't)

**Author's Note:**

> hi! I hope you'll like this fic !  
> btw, even though my English is pretty good, it's NOT my native language, so there may be a mistake or a typo. if you spot any, please let me know!!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: (contain spoilers)
> 
> -Suicide attempt & suicidal feelings  
> -Alcohol
> 
> DISCLAIMER: some dialogues from the show have been transcribed here. they're references. said dialogues belong to the BBC.

“Please, he’s my friend,” Sherlock could hear, among many other murmurs.

He couldn’t remember what was going on. It had become a bit of a blur. He quickly scanned his surroundings. He was at St. Bart’s. He could see John. There were some people standing around something on the pavement. Were they...? Yes, most of them were from the homeless network. But why were they all gathered up? Oh, it must be a corpse. Surely. Was it Christmas after all?

Then he heard that phrase again. “He’s my friend,” John was saying.

Sherlock leaned in to take a closer look at the corpse, but nothing could’ve prepared him for what he saw: a tall, pale dark-haired man in his thirties, dressed in a suit and an expensive coat, with a significant amount of blood coming out of his forehead. Was he... was he staring at his own body?

No, it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be possible. How could he be...?

He tried to reach the body, but every inch of him was trembling, holding him frozen in place. The shock made its way through him as he used everything he had in him to remember. _Remember_.

Why was he dead?

That’s when it came back to him: how Jim Moriarty had planned to ruin his image, how he told Sherlock that he had to commit suicide to spare his friends’ lives, how he needed to hit the airbag to survive... He’d thought he’d make it out alive, he really had. Or at least, he’d hoped. But then again, he noticed that he could feel no heartbeat; and he thanked God, or whoever was up there, that he wasn’t breathing either, because otherwise he knew he would have been hyperventilating by now.

And as the realisation finally hit him like a ton of bricks, Sherlock fell to the ground.

₰

Sherlock wasn’t sure how, but he was now at Baker Street. A few days had passed, he assumed, since things looked slightly different than they were the moment he’d last left his flat.

John wasn’t here. If Sherlock had to be honest, he didn’t even bother to figure out where he might be. He was still trying to get his head around the fact that he was dead. And God, was that hard to take in; mostly because he’d never believed in an afterlife. And now that he did, he realised it wasn’t even interesting. It was merely a non-corporeal existence. He could still see himself, though, as if he did have a body. But he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t play his violin, nor turn the telly on, nor use his mobile. He couldn’t even grab his nicotine patches. Everything he tried to touch, he went through.

He had once said that he didn’t consider himself anything but mind, and that the rest was just transport. He had been, in a sense, right; but what he’d never taken into account was how just much he used to rely on his body. And he hated this newfound sensation of uselessness.

Sherlock heard the front door click open. Those must be John and Mrs. Hudson. “Well,” said she, her voice rather small. She’d been crying. “You’re always welcome to come downstairs... for a cuppa, if you want...”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson,” said John. “But I think I’ll just go get some rest now. It’s been a long day.”

“Sure, dear. I think I’ll do the same.”

When John opened the door of the flat, it was quite obvious that Sherlock remained invisible to him. He walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on. _He wants to be alone_ , thought the detective. He and Mrs. Hudson must’ve been to his funeral.

His funeral, he realised. The word made it seem more real.

Meanwhile, John was staring at the living room. To be precise, he was longingly looking at his friend’s armchair. He couldn’t believe it. Sherlock was gone. He had killed himself. He had admitted to being a fraud.

But he hadn’t been, no. He was a genius, a mastermind. John knew firsthand. It wasn’t just his military record that he could read from his tan or Harry’s drinking habits from John’s mobile. It was the traces of Anderson’s affair with Donovan in his deodorant. It was the Woman’s password in her pulse. It was a policeman’s drug addiction in his chin and a saleswoman’s false identity in her fingernails.

So there had to be a reason. Sherlock was a proud man, he liked showing off. He couldn’t have lied about his genius if it wasn’t for something. And the worst thing was, John would probably never find out what drove him into jumping off the roof.

Once tea was ready, he began to walk towards his armchair; but a voice made him stop dead in his tracks:

“Oh, the limp is back”.

It was followed by the sound of porcelain shattering against the floor.

Sherlock remained silent for a moment – well, he was actually speechless, to be precise. John had heard him, he was almost sure. But that wouldn’t make sense, would it? He’d never shown any sign of being... what was the word, psychic?

And by that, Sherlock meant that John didn’t usually seem to be hearing voices that nobody else could, or anything similar. Besides, he wouldn’t have dropped his cup in such shock if he was used to this sort of supernatural events. Still, this was the action that confirmed Sherlock’s hypothesis.

John shook his head. “You wish, Watson,” he whispered to himself.

“Actually,” said Sherlock, unable to stop himself, “I think you might want to reconsider your conclusions.”

John’s eyes opened wide, the surprise and astonishment growing in them. He must be dreaming, or hallucinating. This couldn’t be Sherlock. He’d jumped off the roof. John had seen him do it. He’d seen him fall and hit the ground. He’d taken his pulse. For the love of God, the sight of Sherlock’s lifeless body was still there, haunting him, torturing him, driving him into insanity. Sherlock simply couldn’t be talking to him right now. The deceased couldn’t speak.

“You’re not imagining this, John,” said the detective, as if he could read his thoughts. He was, most likely, actually deducing them. “I’m here.”

“No, you’re not,” replied the doctor, his voice breaking. “You’re dead. This is just my... mind, messing with me.”

“I _am_ dead, yes. But I’m here. I’m standing by the window, can you tell?” He asked. “I don’t know if the distance is noticeable, as I’m not actually using air to produce sound. You might want to make yourself another cup of tea, by the way. I’d do it for you, but... you know... I can’t exactly touch anything. I suppose I haven’t gone through the floor because gravity doesn’t apply to non-corporeal beings, but I’m still trying to figure out how being a spirit works, so I can’t be sure yet.”

“Could you stop it? It’s not funny. You’re dead. You can’t be here. You won’t even let me mourn you in peace, for God’s sake!” he said, his tone growing louder.

There was silence for a second, during which John thought maybe it _had_ just been his imagination; but then Sherlock’s voice reappeared, softer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t stop to think it would actually shock you this much to hear me again.”

He didn’t voice it, but John could make out the unspoken sentence. _I thought you’d be relieved._

John frowned, but he didn’t complain as he turned back to the kitchen. “So... I still don’t believe you, although I’d like to” he said, looking round as he grabbed the kettle. “Why are you here? Unfinished business, like in the movies?”

Sherlock chuckled. “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem like a good enough reason.” He was quiet for a few seconds. “John... you do know I wasn’t a fraud, don’t you?” he’d moved closer, John could tell. Sherlock must be facing him.

John gave him a sad smile. “You couldn’t be. People just believe what they want to believe.” He paused. “So why did you... why did you do it?” He asked, his tone weak, as if he were afraid to find out. “Why did you kill yourself? And... why did you lie, about yourself, about everything?”

“I... I wasn’t planning to die. Moriarty had threatened to kill you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson if I didn’t commit suicide.

“I had anticipated that he’d try something like this, I had a plan. I was going to fake my death. But... it all went wrong.” If Sherlock’s voice was breaking, John thought, he was trying truly hard not to let it show. “There was an airbag; you couldn’t see it from where you were standing. I had to hit it when I fell. But I didn’t. I missed it by half a metre, I think.”

Sherlock paused. “When I recovered consciousness, I was confused at first. I didn’t understand why I was standing by St. Bart’s, and for a split moment I forgot what I’d done. Then I saw you, and everybody else, standing around something on the pavement. I assumed there had been a murder, I wanted to examine it...” He sighed. “But I instantly recognised my own body. I’m not much for feelings, you know. But I can’t begin to tell you how horrifying it was. I panicked... After that, I lost consciousness again. And now here I am.”

John had to admit, if this was indeed his imagination, it was doing a bloody good job. Everything Sherlock had said made sense. It sounded just like him. It wasn’t just his timbre – it was the way of expressing himself, the details of his plan, the fact that he’d known this might happen...

But aside from that, it was the one thing most people failed to notice about Sherlock Holmes: the fact that he, under his cold ‘high-functioning-sociopath’ facade, actually had feelings. He wasn’t a machine. He was odd, yes, and he hardly ever thought with his heart; but he was human after all.

“Sherlock... are you alright?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well,” he said. “You’ve just died. I reckon that must be a bit shocking.”

“Me? No, I’m fine,” lied Sherlock. “Shock is boring.”

“You’ve just said you panicked.”

“That was like three days ago.”

“You were unconscious for most of that time!” said the doctor, exasperated. “Look,” he sighed. “I know you’re a bit stubborn and proud, but... you don’t have to play robot all the time, let alone right now.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He knew John was right, but he wouldn’t admit it.

It wasn’t grief for his own life that he felt, he realised; it was rage. He was furious at Moriarty for spoiling everything. He’d known, of course he had. He’d known of Sherlock’s plans to tell John about his feelings. One would have to have been blind not to realise how in love they were.

Yet here Sherlock was, all chances of having the future he’d dreamt for the two of them ripped away from him, his sacrifice being the proof of his sentiment. All that remained was the evaporating fog of his hopes, blurry, fading; impossible from the very beginning.

So this was, it seemed, the final evidence that caring was not an advantage. What had Sherlock ever gained from it that he had not lost?

He remained silent for the rest of the day.

₰

John could hardly sleep. He lay awake most of the night, biting back the tears, not knowing why they even wanted to come out. His emotions were all tangled. His grief mixed with confusion, anger burned his stomach; the ghost of Sherlock’s voice this afternoon unsure which path to follow. Was he glad to be able to hear him? Was he mad at him? What was he even supposed to feel?

Perhaps it would be easier if Sherlock were completely dead, and not speaking to him from the afterlife. Then, he could simply mourn him, with everything that implied, and then it’d all be over with. He quickly shook his head, refusing the thought. Sherlock shouldn’t be dead at all and that was it. This should never have happened. Sherlock should be here, _alive_ , playing his violin at four in the morning or shooting at the wall. He should be here to smile at him, to ask him to come along to a crime scene, to calm him down after a war nightmare; but _not this_ – whatever that was.

When the sun arose, John decided it was pointless to keep staring at the ceiling. Reluctantly, he put a dress robe on and headed downstairs to the kitchen, pointlessly trying to ignore the pain in his leg. Rays of sunlight shyly made their way through the closed curtains, greeting him into a day he did not want to start. He’d just put the kettle on when he felt a presence behind him.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” Sherlock said.

When John turned around, he bit back the urge to laugh at himself. What, had he actually expected to see his friend?

“It’s fine,” he half-lied. He guessed he understood why Sherlock had kept his distance, but he’d still hoped events had played differently.

“It’s not, though I do suppose it was the only logical way for me to react; but it was still wrong of me to ignore you after everything we’re both going through.”

_Ouch_ , John thought. He’d forgotten he wasn’t the only one grieving here, even if that wasn’t Sherlock’s point. John wanted to say _it’s okay_ and _I forgive you_ and _let’s just forget about it_. Yet his words betrayed him, for they escaped his mouth before he could stop himself. “Was it something I said?”

Sherlock seemed taken aback at this. Clearly, it wasn’t the response he’d been expecting. “No, don’t you worry about that.” He smiled, though John couldn’t see.

_It’s because I couldn’t stand feeling so many emotions simultaneously_ , he thought. _I hate being dead. I had a life... with you, and now it’s gone. I want it back. I want **us** back. I’m hurting._

“I know that silence. You’re thinking,” said John.

“I see you’re getting better at deducing,” Sherlock joked. “Timing. Sorry.”

John turned around and grabbed a cup to serve himself tea. He hesitated before he spoke again. “Never mind. We’ll talk feelings when you’re ready.”

As a slightly uncomfortable silence began to fill the room, Sherlock decided it best to change the subject of the conversation. “So, any plans for today?” he asked.

“Not much. I ought to start looking for a job, but that can wait a few more days,” he replied. “I might go out for a walk. Helps me think.”

“Sounds nice,” said Sherlock. “I guess I’ll just wait here and do some ghostly experiments.”

“Just please don’t give Mrs. Hudson a fright.”

₰

Even if he’d been planning to, Sherlock couldn’t have spent the afternoon haunting Mrs. Hudson.

It had only been a few minutes since John had left – Sherlock was fruitlessly trying to pluck the E string of his Stradivarius – when he felt himself being torn apart, as if he were fading. He panicked at first, thinking he was moving onto another existential plane (maybe Heaven, or Hell, or perhaps a different form of afterlife from some religion he’d deleted from his mind); but after some moments, he opened his eyes and found himself out on the street, standing just a few metres from John.

It took him a moment to realise what had just happened. One minute he’d been back at Baker Street, and the next, he was in Regent’s Park. It was pretty much like yesterday, when he’d shown up in his living room without meaning to; the only difference now being he didn’t black out for three days.

Still feeling dizzy, Sherlock decided he’d better stay close to his friend. It was merely a hypothesis at that moment, but he guessed him teleporting must have something to do with being away from John. Once the dizziness passed, he’d allow himself to figure it out. As for now, he’d walk alongside his friend in absolute silence – after all, John needed time alone to think.

₰

A few days had passed, but Sherlock still hadn’t told John about his new discovery – that he was, somehow, apparently anchored to him. He simply followed him around, silently, as he pretended to stay at their flat during John’s absences. They could have this conversation later, when he figured out how to bring the subject properly.

“I’ve made an appointment with Ella,” John was saying as he opened the door to the flat and put down the Tesco bags. Sherlock was about to ask who that was when he was interrupted.

“And good evening to you too, John. I’m glad to hear you’re looking after yourself,” spoke an unexpected voice from the sofa.

John looked up at this. He should have expected Mycroft to drop by uninvited, but he hadn’t thought it’d be so soon after Sherlock’s death. His confusion must have shown on his face, for Mycroft was quick to explain.

“I apologise for not announcing my visit. I’ve barely had any time, and I’m doing my best to handle the press _and_ all international security services at the same time. Clearing Sherlock’s name is much harder than it seems,” he said.

Of course John didn’t fall for it. Mycroft lived for the drama, even though he pretended otherwise. He could’ve phoned John like a normal human being and asked if he’d be welcome, but both of them knew John would’ve told him to mind his own business and spare the formalities. Naturally, he would’ve used far less kind words.

To John’s annoyance, Sherlock didn’t seem to bother hiding his opinion. “See you still love telling lies, big brother,” he said. “What’s next? Saying you’ve lost three pounds?”

When Mycroft didn’t seem to hear his brother, John once again wondered if he was actually hallucinating. That could totally be the case. He’d only heard Sherlock. He couldn’t see him, and there was no way in which he was affecting reality, and now he went unnoticed by Mycroft. How could he have been so gullible? Sherlock was dead. He was never coming back.

Although John tried his best not to let any of his worries show on his face, Mycroft was far too observant to be fooled. Something was amiss. Still, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Was it anger? No, John usually smiled when he was angry. Sadness seemed unlikely. If Mycroft didn’t know better, he would’ve said his expression held guilt; yet even that option didn’t fit the puzzle.

He needed more information. That could wait, however. He wasn’t here on an enquiry, but to express his condolences... and an apology.

“I am truly sorry, John,” he began.

“Yeah, me too, but it is what it is. We can’t bring him back, can we?” John replied.

Ah, the bravery of the soldier it was now. Pretending he was coping well, trying to show logical reasoning to hide the heartbreak. John had always been one to think with his heart, no matter how much sense he’d always managed to talk into Sherlock; and yet he’d constantly try to prevent his emotions from escaping into the outside world (in all futility, if you asked the Holmeses).

“No, I’m afraid we can’t,” Mycroft forced an empathetic smile, “but I suppose that’s why I’ve come after all,” he paused, his gaze softer, searching for a spot to get lost in. “I owe you my deepest apologies, John. The last time we met, you were right. Feeding Moriarty information about Sherlock was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. It’s cost my brother’s life, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get rid of the terrible guilt that’s taken hold of my heart.”

Mycroft’s words were genuine. This was no moment to be an iceman. That was reserved for enemies, for shielding himself; but right now, he knew he had no right to ask for John’s forgiveness. Both of them had been torn apart by Sherlock’s death, and the least he could do to make up for his mistakes was to tell him the truth. John didn’t deserve to live with such uncertainty, such lack of answers.

“I believe I owe you an explanation, too.”

It was going to be a long, arduous conversation, so John made tea as Mycroft took a seat on Sherlock’s armchair. “But that’s _my_ chair!” Sherlock complained, fruitlessly: Mycroft couldn’t hear him, and John was ignoring him so that Mycroft wouldn’t think he was mad. Which was stupid according to Sherlock, because it was obvious Mycroft already sensed that John wasn’t in his right mind since he’d died.

“So, what is it that you wanted to tell me?” John asked as he sat down near the fireplace.

Mycroft sighed. “My brother’s death was... part of Moriarty’s plan.”

John frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Sherlock had worked out several possible outcomes to his encounter with Moriarty,” Mycroft explained. “Each of them had its own protocol, all of which were given a specific code name. After a while, Sherlock texted me, and we rushed into action.

“Moriarty wanted Sherlock to commit suicide. That way, he’d have the perfect ending to his story. We’d anticipated this. Sherlock would jump off the roof and land on an airbag. You couldn’t see it, neither could the snipers.”

“But he missed it.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, his eyes lost in the flames. “The rest of the plan was followed regardless. We couldn’t risk the snipers seeing the airbag and thinking we were after them. Such an error would’ve put your own life in danger, so we moved it out of the way and... let you see Sherlock’s body.”

John swallowed. He slowly put down his cup, fingers trembling. “So he lied. Sherlock, when he said he was a fraud. He lied to me and then he... jumped.”

“Moriarty wanted to ruin Sherlock’s image, John, you knew–”

“No, I know that’s what he wanted,” John interrupted. “What I don’t understand is why Sherlock _phoned me_ and said that.” He was lying. He did know (or so he thought), but Mycroft couldn’t know that, because where would he have found out? Only Sherlock could’ve told him, and that was the point, actually: he couldn’t admit it to himself. He couldn’t face the fact that Sherlock’s ghost was _not_ a hallucination, but that he was instead _here_ and could _talk to him_ and neither of them had the faintest idea why or what for.

“The phone call was being monitored,” Sherlock responded from his spot near the sofa. “I had to convince Moriarty’s minions that you wouldn’t find out the truth so they’d leave you alone.”

John shot a deadly look in Sherlock’s general direction, begging him to shut up. He wasn’t in the right mood for this kind of one-sided conversation.

He was angry in a way, but not at Mycroft. Perhaps it was the realisation that Sherlock never wanted to leave him, but had to, without the chance to say a proper goodbye before it was too late. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d tried to stay, but life had ripped him away from him and there was nothing anyone could’ve done to stop that happening.

And even though he wanted to thank Mycroft for telling him all of this, how could he? His words were failing him and his entire body was shaking, his voice numb. Struggling, he managed to speak. “Why did he phone me?”

“He had to, to convince the snipers. In all likelihood, the conversation was being monitored. He couldn’t tell you,” Mycroft sighed. “I think he would have wanted you to know. He never intended to go on with the lie once you were safe.”

John forced a shy smile. “Thanks, Mycroft. For telling me.”

Mycroft smiled back. “It’s the least I could do.”

₰

Sherlock was bored.

There wasn’t much he could do aside from talking to John, but things had changed that afternoon. John was quiet, numb, pensive; and Sherlock guessed he couldn’t blame him. He refused to accept both Sherlock’s death and his afterlife; but after Mycroft’s confirmation of all the things Sherlock had told him, his I’m-just-hallucinating hypothesis had faded into something impossible. And no matter how hard he tried, he wasn’t ready to face reality. So he’d retreated to his bedroom (to think, Sherlock presumed).

But because of that, there was nothing Sherlock could do to keep himself entertained. No John, no drugs, no violin, no experiments... and he never thought he’d say this, but he missed _sleeping_. It would’ve been a good way to escape his boredom, but he didn’t need to sleep. Therefore he couldn’t. Oh, how he envied John, who was in bed upstairs.

_Oh_ , but if John was sleeping, he realised, he there _was_ something he could do: experiment on himself! There was so much to learn about the spiritual world that he hadn’t explored. What if he _could_ move objects? He just had to keep trying. There might be a way!

Decidedly, yet unsure where to begin, Sherlock set to work.

“Let’s see,” he spoke to himself. “Maybe I just need to concentrate.”

He turned to face the mantelpiece, trying to find something worth testing on. As his eyes landed on a small knife plunged into the wood, a sense of enthusiasm bloomed in his mind. Grinning, he drew his hand close to it and tried to focus.

_Pull it out._

He couldn’t. He went right through it, not even feeling it brush against him.

_Pull it out,_ he tried again.

Nothing happened. Sherlock grunted, refusing to be defeated by his non-corporeality. He had to keep working on it. The whole night long he spent attempting to make it move, but nothing came out of his efforts. The more he tried, the more frustrated he grew; hence, the less he could focus on it.

He’d become so engrossed that he didn’t notice the sun rising, nor John climbing down the stairs.

“Morning,” John said.

“Agh, it’s useless!” said Sherlock, his foot running through the coffee table as he kicked it in exasperation.

“What is?”

“I’ve been trying to pull that bloody knife out of the mantelpiece for the last six hours, but I can’t do it.”

“Six hours? That’s what you’ve been doing all night?” John asked, half-laughing.

“Well, yes. Not that there was anything else to do,” Sherlock replied. “I was bored.”

“Couldn’t you... I don’t know, sleep?” he proposed.

Sherlock pursed his lips. Of course John wouldn’t know. “Can’t. No body, no sleep.”

“Oh,” John said, frowning. “Right, um... sorry,” he apologised, offering a shy, if awkward, smile. “I’ll just... go make breakfast.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement, still lost in thought, as he sat down on his armchair. There must be something he was missing. If John could hear him, that meant he could affect the physical world in some way or another. And if so, then there must be a way for him to touch things, right? He was energy now, and that never disappears, it just transforms. He must be able to canalise that energy. He just knew it.

“So, is it some sort of a new project?” John asked a few minutes later, setting down his tea and toast on the kitchen table.

“Hmm?” Sherlock said, coming back from his train of thought.

“You, trying to pull out the knife. Is it some project you’re working on?”

“Experiment,” Sherlock corrected. “Yes, I guess. I figured I should be able to do it, but it’s actually so much harder than it seems,” he sighed.

John shrugged, the corner of his lip slightly rising in empathy. _At least **he’s** been doing something productive_, he thought, _or **trying** to._

He hadn’t slept well. These days, that seemed like a distant dream, something from the past. He was no stranger to insomnia, but neither was he friends with it. Between the vivid memories of that morning at St. Bart’s and the persistent questions that rounded his head since yesterday, he’d get a few minutes’ rest, then wake up again.

There was one thing that kept roaming round his head, and that was Sherlock. It was always Sherlock, though he’d never let him know.

How could he put his feelings into words? The grief was there, still pounding; tears bleeding out when no one could see him. Sherlock jumping off the roof over and over until the mere sight of an ambulance made John’s legs shake as his breath caught in his throat and his chest tightened. The guilt choked him as his rational side worthlessly battled against it. Sure, there was nothing John could’ve done to prevent it, but it was _his fault_. Because Sherlock bloody cared about him, but maybe if he didn’t, Moriarty wouldn’t have threatened him with John’s life. Or maybe he would’ve told Moriarty to sod off, and who cared if it was John who’d died instead? At least Sherlock would’ve lived.

But then again, here he was. This was no coping mechanism made up by his subconscious. Sherlock bloody Holmes was really back from the dead. Well, kind of, because he was _still dead_. But John should be happy, right? His friend was still here with him, and they could talk and clear things up and have a laugh and forget that this all ever happened, couldn’t they? _John should be happy._

So why wasn’t he?

Why was his heart not willing to listen to any of the rational thoughts that arose in the back of his mind? Why did he keep waking up on soaking wet pillows? Why were his hands shaking as they tried to suppress the feelings? The doubts would turn to pain and make their way down to his leg, which he knew shouldn’t be hurting but couldn’t stop it from doing so.

And even though he knew the reason, it was something he was not ready to admit. How on Earth was he ever supposed to acknowledge that the man he loved was gone before he could take his chance to tell him?

So he’d just pretend he was alright. Break the silence, not let him suspect the storm that was going on inside him. That’s what he told himself as he tried to sustain the conversation about metaphysical energy and God-knew-what.

But then again, Sherlock probably had it bad too, didn’t he? _He’s bored,_ John thought to himself, _and you know how grumpy he gets when he’s got nothing to do. Or worse, when he tries to do something and fails miserably, like just now_.

And then the realisation hit him. Sherlock was dead. Surely he must be upset about that? He wouldn’t let John know. That was Sherlock, the emotionless machine. The ‘sociopath’, as he liked to say. How could he let anybody know that he was upset about anything? How could he swallow his pride and tell anybody, even himself, that he was grieving his own life?

But John knew him like the back of his hand: he was only human. He had, he must have, feelings.

“So I’ve got that appointment on Thursday,” he tried to chat as he sipped his tea. “With Ella.”

Sherlock looked up. “Oh, right, you mentioned something. Who was she again?”

“My therapist.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “Alright.”

_So now I’ll have to come to therapy with him_ , thought Sherlock _._ Should he tell him? He looked at John, sitting at the table and munching on his toast. Now was probably as good a time as any; and there wasn’t much of a way to be subtle upon the subject, so he might as well just say it now.

He cleared his throat. “John?” he called.

“Hmm?”

“I need to tell you something, but... I’m not sure how you’ll feel about it,” he said, trying to break it slowly.

“Oh,” John said. “Well, okay. I’m listening.”

“I’ve meant to tell you sooner, but I just didn’t know how and–”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted. “Whatever it is, just say it.”

“Alright,” Sherlock pursed his lips, trying to decide where to start explaining. “I... You know that dreadful film we saw the last time we had a movie night?”

John thought for a moment. “‘Ghost’?” he chuckled.

“My god, was that really the name? They weren’t very creative,” Sherlock commented, raising his eyebrows. “Anyways, you know how the ghost can go anywhere he wants?”

“Well, yes. That’s basic for the plot. How would he have met Whoopi Goldberg if he couldn’t?” John said.

Sherlock resisted the urge to ask who that was, hinting a small smile instead. “What I mean to say is, it turns out that was actually inaccurate. I can’t do that.”

John narrowed his eyes. “So... you can’t leave the flat?” he asked. “I guessed that. I mean, you would’ve said something about how useful it is when you want to run after criminals without been seen.”

“No, that’s not... What I mean is,” Sherlock rephrased, “when you go out, I... have to go with you. If I don’t, I’ll end up next to you any way.”

John blinked, confused. “Sorry?”

“It’s...” he sighed. “Remember what happened after St. Bart’s, when I popped up in the flat without actually meaning to?”

Sherlock tried to ignore the way John flinched. “Yes,” he replied.

“Well, it’s like that. Except I’m conscious when it happens now, and it’s not exactly nice; so I just walk after you to avoid it.” He explained.

John was silent, head still trying to process the new information. He didn’t mean to blame Sherlock for it, let alone expect him to be able to stop it happening; but it seemed so strange. All this supernatural business was so alien, so irrational, that it felt nearly impossible to understand how it worked. But then again, the fact that they were having this conversation would’ve seemed absurd a month ago; so John guessed they’d just have to expect the unexpected from now on.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” he asked, finally.

“You needed to think, I didn’t want to interrupt that,” Sherlock replied. “And I’ve tried to give you your own space any way. Like here at the flat, when you go upstairs and I just stay here trying to work out ghostly physics.” He smiled, fondly, though John couldn’t see it.

But then, those last two words clicked in, reminding him of all he’d done just a few hours prior. The curve on his lips dissipated as a sudden realisation hit him.

_He was sitting on his armchair._

₰

Mycroft needed more information.

His recent visit to Baker Street had gone mostly according to plan, but something was off, like one small section of a wall painted a slightly different shade. He couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but he _knew_ there was something. So, being over-analytical as he was, Mycroft knew he wouldn’t rest until he found out what was going on.

He controlled John’s every move via CCTV: every time he left the flat, everything he did inside it (at least what he could see from the security camera across the street), his strolls across Regent’s Park, and so on.

There was seemingly nothing out of the ordinary. The only strange thing he did, Mycroft noticed, was talk to himself. Perhaps he was thinking out loud, wasn’t he? Lots of people did that. Still, that wasn’t like John. His time in the army had trained him to keep his thoughts to himself. So the only other possibility was...

Hallucinations, right?

Mycroft brought his hands to his chin, thinking. John’s psychological records only included PTSD from the war (Mycroft knew it wasn’t just the longing for adrenaline that used to make him uneasy, but of course he’d never tell him). But this wasn’t like that. John wasn’t nervous or in panic. If he were, why would he talk to somebody who wasn’t there?

_Oh_ , Mycroft thought, his lips rounding. John must be seeing Sherlock, pretending he was still there. It was a coping mechanism, then. Loss was a tricky thing.

Except, for some strange reason, that didn’t seem to be the actual explanation.

There are some things the subconscious mind sees, but the conscious one doesn’t. This was something Mycroft knew very well, and he always stuck to this principle when trying to unravel a mystery. He must stay alert.

So he wondered. What exactly was it that he wasn’t seeing?

He kept watching the CCTV that night, even after John had gone to bed. After an hour staring at the empty living room though, he was beginning to wonder if he too should get some rest and go on with his investigations in the morning. But suddenly, something caught his eye.

The skull slid across the mantelpiece.

Mycroft blinked in confusion. Surely he must have imagined something? It must be due to the sleep deprivation. There must be something in his coffee, he must be mistaken.

Still, when the skull levitated towards the sofa, the last piece of the puzzle finally settled in place.

₰

“John,” Sherlock said, looking out the window. “You’ll probably want to brew some tea. We’ve got a visitor.”

John put the newspaper down and looked towards him. “Who?”

“The British Government, by the looks of it,” Sherlock replied.

In fact, when John stood up to look outside, he saw Mycroft hastening to the door. This couldn’t be good. Mycroft was generally well-mannered. He always said hello to Mrs. Hudson before going upstairs, and rarely did he walk into the flat without knocking, despite owning a spare key. But today, he’d straight up rushed inside, nearly knocking down the door to the flat as he opened it.

“How?” he demanded, seemingly out of breath.

John looked at him. “I don’t understand?” he smiled.

Mycroft pursed his lips, clearly frustrated by not understanding something. “Sherlock. He... he’s here, isn’t he?” he asked. “John, is my brother here?”

He tried to keep his dignity as high as he could, his tone firm. But his eyes betrayed him, pained, searching for an answer they couldn’t find.

John took a deep breath. “Yes,” he replied.

And as the answer ringed in his ears, Mycroft felt his legs shaking; holding onto his umbrella not to fall. Time stood still as his heartbeat sped up, the world spinning beneath him. He closed his eyes and mentally counted to five, trying to regain his composure.

He hadn’t noticed John leaving for a second until he handed him a glass of water. “You should probably sit down,” John told him, leading him to the sofa.

“How?” Mycroft repeated the question. “Are you... psychic, do you hear him? Has he told you why he’s here?” he asked, struggling to find the right words.

“He doesn’t know. Not yet. We’re... still trying to figure it out, I guess.”

“Don’t worry, big brother, I won’t haunt your house. Baker Street is much more fun,” Sherlock said with a hint of excitement.

John shot a deadly look in his general direction. “I’m not gonna tell him that, Sherlock. He’s in shock.”

“No, tell me,” Mycroft begged. “I want to know.”

John sighed, pressing to fingers to his temple. “He says not to worry; he won’t haunt your house. He says haunting the flat is ‘more fun’.”

Mycroft’s lips rose slightly. “I see he hasn’t changed much.”

_No_ , thought Sherlock, glancing tenderly at John. _Not really_.

“So, um... if you don’t mind me asking,” said John, “how did you know?”

“He’s been spying on us, of course,” Sherlock interrupted.

John blinked. That completely sounded like Mycroft, but they couldn’t have been so obvious, could they? They’d been careful. All John had done was speak to Sherlock when nobody was watching. Anyone would’ve assumed he was thinking out loud.

_Well_ , he thought, _anyone but Mycroft._

Mycroft grinned, studying John’s face. “He says I’ve been spying on you.” It wasn’t a question.

“I don’t even know why I bother to repeat what he says. It’s like you know it already,” replied John, taking a seat. “So you _have_?”

“It was the only way. Something was off, and I knew you wouldn’t tell me what it was,” he said. He then gazed around the living room, not quite knowing where to look. “I must say, dear brother, that your _abilities_ are very impressive.”

John frowned. Abilities? What abilities?

Sherlock leaned against the wall, pleased. “Ask him if he liked the little touch with the skull.”

“Wait, what skull?” asked John, standing up. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, I see he hasn’t told you,” Mycroft spoke. The shock was finally washing off; thank God. He could speak more easily now. “I was watching the CCTV last night. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for a floating skull,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

John let out a smile, though it was not a happy one. _That bastard_. Sherlock had managed to move something and he hadn’t said a word about it.

“So you liked it?” Sherlock asked again.

John clenched his teeth. He’d have to speak for his friend, but that didn’t mean he wanted to. “He wants to know if you liked it.”

“Oh, like I said, I found it most impressive. I don’t suppose it’s something easy to do,” Mycroft said, honest. Because even though the mere fact of his brother’s afterlife was impossible, here they were. And frankly, he was intrigued by it. How did he do it? Moving things, having John hear him... He was also frustrated, anyway. He needed to understand, and yet he couldn’t.

“No, it isn’t,” Sherlock replied. “It took me a while to get it. Apparently some things are easier than others. Sitting is a piece of cake, but with the skull it felt like I was carrying a piano. It’s exhausting.”

Mycroft studied John. “What’s he saying?”

“He says some things are easy, like sitting, but the skull felt really heavy. Takes him effort,” John paraphrased.

“I see,” he said, deep in thought. “I presume you haven’t told anyone about this.”

“Why would I?” said John. “I wouldn’t want to end up in a madhouse,” he smirked.

“I agree. And you said you still don’t know how this works?” he inquired, eager to find answers to his doubts.

“Not really. He’s here, I hear him, and wherever I go he goes too. Seems he’s tied to me or something,” John answered. “And there’s the skull thing as well,” he added.

“Ah,” he said. “Odd, all of it. But then again, I’ve always liked it when impossibilities come true. I find it... fascinating.”

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock scoffed. “You hate it ‘cause you can’t explain them.”

“Well then,” Mycroft sighed, standing up. “I’ll be on my way. You know where to find me if you need anything.”

Though Mycroft didn’t tell them, Sherlock knew he’d be slipping money into John’s bank account until he could start work again.

₰

John was having a bad grief day, as Sherlock called it. He supposed he should have expected it. But he couldn’t bear seeing him like that: absent-minded, silent and, worst of all, crying. He had to help.

He managed to pick up a psychology book from one of the shelves, and read all of it to try and understand what he could do. He got a better understanding of some things, like, for example, how recovery is never linear; but aside from that, he didn’t find much useful advice.

_Well, there goes nothing_ , thought Sherlock, grunting as he put the book back in place.

Four hours later, John came downstairs, dressed and seemingly ready to leave. Sherlock stood up. _Right_ , he remembered, _his therapy appointment._

He cleared his throat. “John?” he called.

“Hm?” John hummed.

“You should probably eat something before you leave. You haven’t eaten all day,” Sherlock said.

“Not hungry,” John replied.

“Please. Eat something, anything,” he begged. “Some biscuits, at least.”

John huffed. “Alright,” he said, not entirely happy with it but knowing his friend was right. “Just a few, and then we’re leaving.”

London greeted them with heavy rain, which was most unfamiliar to Sherlock now. If he extended his hand, he could see the raindrops go right through it. He could feel them if he concentrated, but he tried not to. It wasn’t exactly pleasant.

The cab ride didn’t take too long, but John was anxious still. He hadn’t seen Ella in what felt like a century. He didn’t know what to expect, or even where he’d start. This wasn’t regular grief. He wouldn’t have phoned Ella in the first place if it had been. But if he didn’t know how to deal with these tangled emotions, how would his therapist? Should he even tell her the truth?

Finally, the car stopped outside the practice.

Inside, it was warm. Ella showed John to an armchair by the window, then took a seat in front of him. But for minutes, neither of them spoke a word. They just stared at each other, the storm softly banging against the glass.

_For the love of God_ , thought Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall behind Ella, _just **talk**!_

“Why today?” she asked, as a way of greeting.

John blinked. “Do you wanna hear me say it?”

He couldn’t believe it. She must know why he’d come. Everyone had been talking about Sherlock, even before he’d fallen to his... even before he’d fallen. His name was on every single news channel, and so was John’s, in one way or the other. And if Ella was as good a therapist as she thought, she must have been reading John’s blog as well. He hadn’t posted anything since, but that didn’t stop hate comments from being thrown at him on all of his blog updates. So she wanted him to say it out loud. _Cruel_.

“Eighteen months since our last appointment.”

“You read the papers?” John asked, baffled.

“Sometimes,” Ella replied.

He hummed. “And you watch telly. You know why I’m here. I’m here because–” he paused, his voice breaking.

Ella leaned forward. _Establishing dominance_ , thought Sherlock, though he knew he had no right to interfere. How could he? It was his fault that John was here in the first place. If his plan hadn’t failed, _if he hadn’t died_ , John would be alright. Sure, John was alive; the whole point of jumping was to keep him safe. But he wasn’t fine. He was a mess, even when he tried to pretend otherwise. At the end of the day, they both knew Sherlock wasn’t easily fooled.

“What happened, John?” Ella said.

John closed his eyes. “Sher–” he started, but couldn’t go on.

“You need to get it out,” she insisted.

John sniffled. “My best friend, Sherlock Holmes... is dead.”

There. He said it. Was that what she wanted? It wouldn’t fix it. He was _dead_ and gone for good, and what did it matter that they could still talk? It was worthless compared to what they could have, _should have_ had.

If Sherlock hadn’t died, they could’ve had a future together. As friends, as more than friends; God only knew. But with him dead, all of it was reduced to a conversation that was barely even there, the reminiscence of what it used to be. Even if he named every little detail – the criminal-chasing, dinner, the Bond-movie marathons – it would never be enough. He missed _Sherlock_ , per se, in the flesh and bone. And it felt so wrong, ‘cause Sherlock was right here! Eternally loyal to him from beyond the grave!

Except he wasn’t really here. Instead, John felt like he was being constantly reminded of what they could never have; of the fact that they were so close, yet completely unable to reach each other. And that was all there’d ever be: the ghost of a friendship, of a life, that could’ve been more but never would.

“There’s stuff that you wanted to say,” Ella spoke, “but you didn’t say it.”

“Yeah,” John replied, bringing his attention back to her.

“Say it now,” she suggested.

“No,” he said. “Sorry. I can’t.”

“Would it help if you wrote it down?” she offered. “Your blog did help, after all.”

“Yeah?” he scoffed. “What good has my blog ever done? My blog made Sherlock a public figure,” he said, furious. “It made him vulnerable to the media, to enemies. Enemies who used his fame to ruin him, to bring him down bit by bit until people didn’t trust him anymore. And you know what?” he asked, a menacing smile making its way up his lips. “Maybe, if I’d never written that bloody blog, Sherlock would still be alive.”

“So you feel that this is your fault?” said Ella in a professionally calm voice.

“Hell yes, I do,” John answered.

₰

“Could we go to the cemetery?” Sherlock asked, tentatively. “It’s not far from here.”

John looked down. “Why do you wanna go?” he asked, dubious.

“I’ve haven’t been to my grave yet. I’d like to,” Sherlock confessed, somewhat tenderly. “Just for a little while. Please,” he begged.

John hesitated. “Can we do this another day? I’m not in the mood for this.”

Sherlock didn’t insist. “Alright.”

₰

The next few weeks weren’t good. The realisation that Sherlock really was dead was hitting John hard. He’d rarely leave his bedroom, save the moments when Mrs. Hudson went upstairs and tried to make him eat. He usually refused to.

Sherlock was trying his best too, but nothing he did would ease John’s depression. In fact, John kept trying to ignore him. He’d pretend Sherlock wasn’t there. And it _hurt_ , more than Sherlock would have liked to admit. Because on one hand, it was a constant reminder of his death, of the fact that he didn’t belong to the world of the living anymore; and on the other hand, he felt _rejected_. Without John, he was nothing. He was air, oblivion, a figure of the past to everybody else. He was alone. The only thing, the only _friend_ that was anchoring him to this earth was turning his back on him.

And if John had no sense of self-preservation left, Sherlock was running out of options. Because there was one thing he was not willing to let happen: he would not have John Watson die on him. He would not let him starve to death, nor would he let sorrow consume him.

John Watson deserved a happy life, not this.

After some minutes of fighting with a pencil, Sherlock finally managed to write a note. It was scribbly, as if it’d been written by a five-year-old, but it was legible enough. He picked it up, holding it against the window and hoping Mycroft was still watching them.

_‘John’s depressed. Need help. Do what you must. SH’_

He put it down five minutes later, knowing it would be foolish to spend all his energy in holding a sheet of paper up. If he was right about Mycroft, it should be enough time for him to get the message. Sighing, he lay down on the floor and waited.

It was only around five that something caught his attention: a car engine. Not his brother’s, this one was a few years older, manual-driven. _Ah_ , he thought, _Lestrade. How clever._ Mycroft wasn’t _“good with humans”_ , as he’d often put it, so it was to be expected that he’d send someone else. And thankfully, Lestrade was just the man he needed.

From his bedroom, John also heard Greg arriving. _Dear Lord_ , he thought, _they just won’t leave me alone_. Didn’t anybody understand? He didn’t want company. He didn’t want anything to do with anybody, living or dead. Instead, he wished that maybe, if he closed his eyes for long enough, he’d sleep for a thousand years. He just needed to lie down and vanish into nothingness. Hopefully, he’d cease to exist, or he’d forget that he did.

Why couldn’t he have that? What even was the point of living, when Sherlock couldn’t?

Greg knocked on his bedroom door. “John?” he asked, but there was no reply. Why wasn’t he surprised? He knocked again. “I’m coming in. Better be decent,” he warned.

When he opened the door, he saw that John’s bedroom couldn’t have been worse. The lights were off, there was dust everywhere, and judging by the smell, he hadn’t showered in ages. It was, in fewer words, a cave.

“Can I turn on the lights?” Greg asked.

“Just go away,” was John’s reply, muffled by a pillow.

“Nope,” Greg said. “Not gonna happen. But I’ll leave the lights off if that makes you happy.”

John grunted, trying to stop himself from telling Greg where he could shove that so-called happiness. _After all_ , he reasoned, _he just wants to help_.

“I’ve got an idea. What if you take a shower,” Greg offered, “and I’ll make us some popcorn? I brought some films for us to watch.”

“I’ll do with the shower, but I’m not in the mood for telly.”

“Great,” smiled Greg.

₰

Though Sherlock hated accepting help from his brother, he was thankful he’d sent Lestrade to Baker Street. Not that John was actually doing any better, but at least there was somebody there to keep a good eye on him. Lestrade, unlike Sherlock, could call 999 or give John first aid should there be an emergency. He could talk to him and listen in a more tactful way than Sherlock could have done. John was in good hands.

Well, or so Sherlock hoped.

Lestrade was staying the night. He cooked a decent meal, and he refused to go to bed until John finished his plate. He was kind enough to serve a small portion, though. With how little John had been eating lately, it wouldn’t have been wise to over-feed him.

“You should get some sleep,” Lestrade said, once they’d finished dinner. “It’ll do you good.”

“Yeah,” John replied. “Yeah, I should.”

Sherlock wasn’t as easily fooled as Lestrade. “With that level of insomnia? You won’t,” he said. “Why are you lying?”

John ignored him. “You need the loo? I just have to brush my teeth, but you can go first if you need to.”

“Nah,” Lestrade said. “You go first. I’m good.”

_Maybe he just doesn’t want Graham to worry_ , Sherlock told himself.

God, how wrong he was.

Around three in the morning, after centuries staring at the ceiling, John got up from his bed and reached for his cane. Under any other circumstances, Sherlock would’ve simply assumed John was having nightmares and needed a stroll around London to clear his mind. But tonight, he was worried sick.

“Where are you going?” he asked, concerned.

“Cemetery,” John said, simply. “You wanted to see your grave. We’re going.”

This wasn’t good. Sherlock hurried to the kitchen, deciding he must make good use of the little time he had left in the flat before John walked too far. He quickly scanned the room and found what he needed: a pen and paper. Struggling, he wrote:

_‘Cemetery. SH.’_

He hung it on the fridge door just as John climbed down the stairs. All he could do now was hope that Lestrade would see it.

Sherlock rushed after his friend. Under any other circumstances, he would’ve had no idea why John had the sudden need to visit Sherlock’s grave at three in the morning; but given the state he was in, he didn’t think it was a good sign. “Why now?”

John ignored him and hailed a cab.

The place was desolated, naturally. Not many people liked to go there at night, possibly because they heard too many ghost stories. Sherlock would have laughed at the irony, but right now, all he was was concerned. There was nobody around to help him. He was counting on John’s limp to buy them some time, but he had no way of knowing if Lestrade had gotten his message, and he had to fear the worst.

“John, please, we should go back home,” Sherlock begged. “We can come back another day.”

“No, Sherlock,” John said. “I’m staying here.”

Suddenly, Sherlock took in the bottles of scotch hidden underneath John’s jacket. Stupid, stupid, stupid! The worry had made him ignore obvious, vital details. What was happening to him?

He shook his head. He couldn’t keep thinking about that now, not when he had more important priorities. “John, please don’t–”

“Ah-ah,” John denied, gripping the bottles so tight Sherlock couldn’t toss them away from him. He wasn’t strong enough to, and John was using that to his own advantage. “We need to talk, and I need to drink.”

Sherlock watched powerless as John reached his gravestone, sat down against it, and swallowed sip after sip. “This is it,” he said. “Your grave.”

“John, please...”

“No, I’ll do the talking,” John interrupted, then paused for a second. “I’m angry, Sherlock.”

“Do you think I’m not?” Sherlock said. John opened his mouth to respond, but Sherlock was quicker. “I’m angry too, John. I’m furious. Believe it or not, losing your own life is no fun. I know what you’re trying to do. That’s blended scotch. It’s 68% alcohol and you’ve brought _three whole bottles_ to drink by _yourself_ ,” Sherlock spoke, his eyes filled with fear and impotence. “Please listen to me: don’t do this. Stay alive, for me. I didn’t die for you to do this to yourself.”

John let out a dry chuckle, then sighed. “I know,” he said, his voice hoarse. “But there’s things I want, I _need,_ to say, so hear me out first.”

He breathed in, gazing at the ground for a second, then up. “You told me once that you weren’t a hero. There were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this,” he paused. “You were... the best man, and the most human human being that I have ever known. I was so alone... and I owe you so much,” he said, his voice breaking.

“I...” Sherlock started.

“They think you lied,” continued John. “But I never did. Not for one second. I asked you to stop being dead,” he said, still drinking, “at your funeral. I thought you might be listening, but it turns out you weren’t. And then I come home, right after that, and you’re there. You were there!” he laughed, the alcohol taking effect. “As if you’d known that I needed you; that I can’t live without you. And it’s so _fucked up_.”

John hadn’t stopped drinking throughout his speech, and he’d already had more than half of the bottle. Sherlock hoped that he’d either lose his grip on the others soon, or that Lestrade would get here fast. _Dear God, or whatever deity’s responsible for my posthumous existence_ , he thought, _help me out here._

“And you know why?” John carried on. “‘Cause I should be happy. You came back for me, you _fucking died_ for me and still this is how I’m paying you. But I can’t help it,” he spoke, his voice small and his vision swelling with tears. “I’m broken, Sherlock. There’s a part of me that’s not completely there and _I can’t fix this_. I’m not okay. I’m never going to be. But it is what it is, and what it is is...

“Shit,” he exclaimed, just then noticing Lestrade rushing towards them.

“John!” shouted Lestrade. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m just–” he began to speak, but was interrupted by one of the bottles being kicked away by Sherlock, who’d taken John’s distraction as an opportunity.

Lestrade was startled. “Did you see that?” he said, shocked.

John sighed. “Look, it doesn’t matter, Greg,” he spoke, still dizzy. “What are you doing here?”

“That’s what I should be asking you,” Lestrade responded. “Seriously, John, this is no joke. This much alcohol could kill you! Do you really think that’s okay?”

John didn’t answer.

“Look, I know Sherlock’s death’s been hard for you. It has been for all of us. But I can’t lose another friend,” he confessed, honest and sore. “There’s not one day that passes that I don’t regret not having been there for Sherlock. I was an absent friend. But I won’t be absent for you,” he promised.

John looked up at Greg, who offered him his hand and helped him up. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. The tears started to make their way down his face, and Lestrade embraced him, scared that he might break him if he held him too tight.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Cry all you need. Better out than in,” he assured.

As they made their way back to Baker Street, Lestrade remembered Sherlock’s note and the incident with the scotch. Still, he shook his head, deciding it was something he could worry about some other day.

₰

That “other day” came a week later.

After what had happened at the cemetery, it had been decided not to leave John out of sight for more than fifteen minutes. Mycroft, Greg, and even Mike had been coming round to keep him company. John preferred the latter two, but he hated not being able to talk to Sherlock in their presence, so it was good that Mycroft came as well.

There was a knock on the door.

“It’s open!” 

“Hello,” said Lestrade, coming in.

“Hey.”

“Gregory,” greeted Mycroft. “I’ll be out in a minute. John and I were just discussing some details about his new therapist.”

“Oh, you’re getting a new one?” Lestrade asked, turning to face his friend. “That’s, um, good,” he smiled.

“Yeah,” John said.

“Well, uh, I’ll be in the kitchen, then,” said Lestrade. “Need some water.”

“Sure.”

Greg had been thinking a lot since last week; mostly about John, naturally. He’d been sick with worry, and he was even disappointed in himself for not having seen the signs. But there was also Sherlock.

He knew it must’ve been Sherlock who left that note. It wasn’t his typical handwriting – it looked much less neat now, almost like he didn’t know how to hold a pen – but he’d signed it: _SH_. It could only have been him. The only other possibility would’ve been that John had done it, but why would he? Even if he had wanted to be found, to be helped, there was no reason why he would sign it like Sherlock.

And then there was the bottle. That had cleared him of all doubts. It had flown away, like magic! It couldn’t have been John who’d done that, could it?

_Well_ , wondered Lestrade, _what if he’s still around? Could he write back?_

He grabbed a notebook and pen from his trouser pocket. There was only one way to test his theory.

_‘Sherlock, you still there?’_ he wrote.

Back in the living room, Sherlock had been paying attention to Mycroft and John’s conversation, but after last week, he’d promised himself he would never get slow on any deductions again. So when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lestrade noting something down in the kitchen and discreetly looking around, he knew exactly what he was trying to do.

He walked towards him, thankful that his invisibility allowed him not to distract John. Smirking, he took the pen.

_‘Yes.’_

Lestrade’s eyes opened like saucers. It wasn’t that he wasn’t expecting a response, but it was still a bit shocking to see a pen move by itself – or, actually, being moved by his dead friend.

_‘Thanks for warning me about John.’_

Sherlock smiled. _‘Anytime,’_ he wrote, drawing a smiley face next to it.

Lestrade still had many questions, Sherlock noticed. The former had grabbed the pen again and was fidgeting with it, dubious about what to say next. Sherlock wouldn’t mind answering all of those questions, but Mycroft was about to leave and he didn’t want to do it in front of John.

Besides, he had the feeling that John needed to talk to him in private. This was his chance to get said privacy.

He took the pen from Lestrade. _‘You should show this to Mycroft,’_ he wrote. _‘He’ll explain everything.’_

Lestrade smiled. “I will,” he mouthed.

A few minutes later, Mycroft got up from his seat, taking his umbrella in one hand. “Well,” he said, “I shall be leaving.”

“Actually, can I have a word?” Lestrade asked.

They left, and so Sherlock and John were left alone, finally. Sherlock was starting to wonder if he’d have to be the one to start the conversation, when John spoke. “Sorry.”

Sherlock blinked, taken by surprise. “John, I... you don’t have to apologise,” he said.

“No, I do,” John said. “I’m sorry I put you through that. It wasn’t okay. But what’s worse is, I still want to die,” he admitted. “And you’re probably right, when you say it’s no fun being dead and you try to stop me. I can’t help it though. Life seems so worthless without you in it.”

“But I’m here,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, but not really, are you?” John deadpanned. “There’s so much you’re going to miss out on, and all because you died to save my life. And you know what?” he asked. “Ella was right. There’s so many things I should’ve said before.

“I loved you, Sherlock,” he confessed. “I still do. But it’s stupid, because you’re dead and there’s nothing I can do about it now. I had so many chances to say it, but I never did. I wish I had,” he said, biting back the tears. “I don’t know if you felt the same, but at least if I’d told you, things could’ve been different. We could’ve been more than friends, or something... who knows? But I didn’t take my chance when I still could. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock looked up at him, his gaze emotional. “I love you too, John,” he said. “I’m sorry I never told you.”

He meant it. He’d been about to say it so many times, but he never had. And he regretted it, because even though he would’ve surely died all the same, at least they could’ve made the best of their time. But now, it was too late. It was too late to kiss, to hold each other. They belonged together, but they’d never get to share the life they deserved.

With his eyes still fixed on John, something clicked in the back of Sherlock’s mind. The world span beneath him, tumbling down as a realisation hit him. John’s words at his graveside echoed in his ears, suddenly making perfect sense.

‘ _You came back for me, you **fucking died** for me.’_

_‘There’s a part of me that’s not completely there.’_

Sherlock had sacrificed himself for the person he loved. And John loved him in return.

They’d always been two parts of a whole. But in giving his life for John, Sherlock had connected their souls. They _couldn’t_ be separated. They were the ocean and land, constantly in need of each other’s touch. They were every colour of twilight, night and day becoming one; and Sherlock’s fall was dusk, when the sun died so the moon could come back to life.

That was why he’d come back to John, why only he could hear him and Sherlock couldn’t walk away. It all made sense! The reason he was here was that he _belonged_ with John. It was never a coincidence that had kept him here; it was fate.

Sherlock looked back at him, every inch of him trembling.

“Sherlock?” John called, sensing the uneasiness in his silence.

“I think...” Sherlock said, still shocked. “I think I figured it out.”

₰

**_40 years later._ **

“He’s a fighter, your uncle,” Sherlock heard one of the nurses say.

Catherine smiled at her. “Yeah, he is. He’s been through a lot, you know? Besides this, I mean. And he’s always managed to make it,” she glanced at John, who was asleep on his hospital bed. He’d been in and out those days. “And I really hope he will now, too. But I’m scared,” she said. “He could die. His heart’s really weak.”

The nurse (Anna, if Sherlock got her name right) gently put her hand on her shoulder. “What matters is you’re here with him. It’s good for him to have company.”

She looked up at Anna, tears beginning to form in her eyes. “I know.”

“You said he always made it, those other times,” she said. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

Catherine turned her face towards John, remembering all the stories she’d heard about him. It wasn’t always him who told them to her; he’d always been so reserved. He had told her about the war, though; how he’d been shot and sent home, and how he’d never forget all the friends he’d lost in battle.

He’d also told her about Sherlock. Sherlock, who’d brought a purpose to John’s life after the war. Sherlock, with whom he would run around London, chasing down murderers and solving crimes. Sherlock, blessed Sherlock, whose death had nearly destroyed John.

As it turned out, John didn’t like to talk about Sherlock’s death, but Catherine had managed to find out what had happened all the same. Sherlock had died saving John’s life, Uncle Greg had told her, and John had been so depressed that he’d almost killed himself. After that, they’d sent him to therapy, and it had taken a while but he recovered eventually.

_“He was saving lives at A &E just six months later,”_ Uncle Greg would say. _“Still needed therapy for a while, but he was good enough to work.”_

She sighed, lost in her thoughts. “I think I’ll tell you about it some other day,” she said.

When night fell, Catherine went back home to Harry, and Sherlock was finally left alone at John’s bedside. His gaze fell on him, old and fragile; and _so close_. If Sherlock still had a heart, he would’ve heard it beating loudly against his eardrums. Because, God, how he loved him. He had so much to be grateful for. Fate had let him remain by John’s side for nearly a lifetime, and yet those forty years were just a heartbeat compared to eternity.

Quietly, he ran a hand through his hair, careful to be gentle when he woke him. A curve made its way up Sherlock’s lips, fond and trembling. He wished it didn’t have to be now, but he knew it was time.

“John,” he called. It was nearly a whisper.

John opened his eyes, which wrinkled in tenderness at what they saw. “Sherlock,” he called back. “I see you.”

Sherlock smiled at him. “It’s time to go.”

John felt himself leave his body, peacefully and slow. And as Sherlock finally held him in his arms, the world was brighter, kinder; and he was younger as their lips touched, that long-awaited instant filling them with joy and relief. They were reunited, the dark nights slipping away, peace finding them at last.

They pulled away, slowly, hesitantly; lost in each other’s eyes. Light was beginning to surround them, the hospital bedroom and the staff’s efforts to revive John long forgotten. Sherlock took John’s hand in his, cupping his cheek with the other.

“Shall we?” he asked.

John nodded. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“I love you too, John Watson.”

Together, they walked away, stepping into the eternity that awaited them on the other side.

**FIN.**

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this! as always, comments and kudos are appreciated <3  
> lots of love,  
> meer.


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